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Author: Joan Marr

ISBN: 978-0-9925217-1-4

Cover: ‘Oystercatcher’

Pastel painting by Joan Marr

Centuries ago human beings were dependent on the extraordinary. Their abilities to heal, see into the future, communicate mind to mind and sense danger, were commonly used, but were much stronger in some. Witches, born with these gifts, were important to society, as was belief in the magic they wielded.

CHAPTER ONE

FRANCE, 1431

The crowds were noisy and unruly in Rouen. They were a mixture of English Protestants and French Catholics, who often witnessed the execution of those who were found guilty of the crimes of heresy or witchcraft. Some came with enthusiasm, some to stand there mute, as if giving silent support to the victims. There were many who believed the Catholic Church was in need of reform, and many others who had grown tired of the domination, corrupt clergy, ritual, icons and statues and the belief that these were necessary to the path of salvation. These people were condemned if caught. As the Church authority became more intense in its search for non-conformists, its inquisitors sought out and arrested many innocent people and executed them.

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Camille held Françoise close, wrapping her grey woollen cloak about him. The two-year-old slept, his head on her shoulder, and he was heavy. By her side stood five-year-old Sophie and seven-year-old Pierre in their well-made leather boots, with the hoods of their thick, dark cloaks pulled up over their heads, faces hidden in shadow, and cold little hands clutching her skirt for fear they might be separated.

She and her children stood on the fringes of the large crowd watching what was happening in the square below them. Camille was nervous about crowds and soldiers, and didn’t want to get any closer to the central dais on which a pyre had been set with a thick pole in the middle of it.

Stone buildings pressed around the edge of the square, and the crowd, dense and excited, pushed and swayed, spilling back into the alleyways radiating from the open space like the spokes of a gigantic wheel.

From her vantage point she could see the bishop, other religious officials, all dressed in their robes of office, and guards, who restrained the prisoner, a small young woman in men’s clothing. The bishop was delivering a lengthy lecture to the prisoner, but the words were drowned out by the raucous voice of the crowd urging the bishop to get on with the burning.

Camille did not follow the same religious beliefs as the young woman, but felt a great deal of sympathy for her. Jeanne d’Arc was a Catholic and supported the King and the Pope. Now, she struggled and shouted, trying to defend herself from her accusers. Camille was wishing that someone could rescue the poor girl from this terrible death, but she knew that would be impossible.

Pierre tugged on his mother’s cloak, “Who is that Mama? Why are they all shouting?” His bright blue eyes were visible as he turned his face up to see her.

“That prisoner is Jeanne d’Arc, Pierre. She had been charged with heresy and witchcraft. She has fought the English with King Charles’ army, and she claims that the voices of God and the saints have directed her.”

“What are they doing to her?” persisted the little boy.

“They are hearing the accusations that have been made against her, and the bishop is giving her advice on how she can save herself. They say she should deny that she hears voices, and she should denounce the King. If they find her guilty she will be put to death.”

“Won’t the King help her?” Pierre asked.

“I don’t think so. He is weak, and afraid to confront the Catholics in the north of France.”

“Why?” continued Pierre.

“Do stop asking questions just now Pierre. Come Sophie. I need to pick up the silver from the agent. Françoise is getting heavier by the minute, and we must walk to the river to meet Papa.” She now desperately wanted to get away from this dreadful denouement.

Sophie had hardly moved while they stood there, keeping her head bowed. Now she took a firm hold of her mother’s cloak and walked as close as possible.

“Wait!” Camille said suddenly and quietly, pulling her children in close, facing away from the group of soldiers barging their way through the people. “Stand very still”, she said, and began murmuring to herself, her cloak swirling around them seeming to take on the colours of the background making them almost invisible.

The soldiers roughly pushed the bystanders aside, casting their eyes about looking intently, searching. They passed by, their glance passing, unseeing, over Camille and the children. Shortly they disappeared into the crowd again.

“Come, let’s hurry,” she ordered Pierre and Sophie, leading them away through the thinning populace. Glancing behind she saw flames and smoke curling above the heads of the lingering crowd. She could hear the young woman at the stake shrieking, and then it was lost the roar of the people.

She soon came to a small shop with a single tiny window, through which they could see a man bent over working. He looked up as they went in, and smiled. His spectacles were balanced on the end of his nose, his wispy white hair stuck out in all directions giving him a kindly appearance. Under his hands on a bench were pieces of jewellery on which he was working.

“Camille, here you are. I thought you might not come today because of the crowds.”

“Yes, it is not very nice out there. However Nicolas is out of metal, and he is keen to get some more work done.” She handed over some coin. “I take it that the next batch will be here as usual?”

“About four weeks,” he said. “The silver mines are doing well at the moment, and I have a never-ending demand for Nicolas’ designs. I’ll see you then, Camille. Au revoir.”

The jeweller gave her a small bag. It was not heavy so she gave it to Pierre to carry. He tucked it under his arm and soon they were wending their way down the filthy cobbled lanes between ramshackle shanties of the poorer areas of the city. Several times they stopped, melting into the background of dirty walls, while soldiers went by the end of the street. A short while later, assuring herself that no one lurked about who might see them, Camille left the cover of the dwellings and followed the dirt road through the old gateway in the city wall and into the forest. Feeling more relaxed once they were under cover of the trees and heading down a small track towards the river, she shifted Françoise into an easier position. The branches closed behind the little group as they disappeared from view.

Nicolas Fournier slid silently through the shaded forest, feeling relieved to get away from the meeting. Not that he needed to be so careful at the moment but as revolutionaries they were always sought by the church inquisitors and French soldiers alike. Even though their faces were not known as yet, being involved in illicit activities as they were, they had to make sure they did not look suspicious, so made a practice of being unobtrusive. He worried about his wife, Camille, hoping she had returned unscathed to the river where they agreed to meet.

He had hidden the little boat in some thick riverside growth after Camille and the children had left to walk the short distance into Rouen. Carefully he had found his way to the farmhouse where he was to meet the others, who, with Nicolas, were to have their usual meeting to discuss their next load of produce to be taken into the city for sale.

He knocked on the door of the small, whitewashed building.

“Bonjour, Frederic,” he greeted the middle-aged man who answered the door. “Is Marcelle well?”

“Ah Nicolas.” The farmer solemnly took his hand and slapped him on the back. “It is good to see you. Yes, Marcelle is fine as usual. Come in, the others are here.”

Nicolas stooped to enter through the low doorway. Inside was a homely, warm little room with a table and two benches, and a stone fireplace at one end. The smoke from a small fire drifted lazily upwards and through the outlet in the thatched roof, leaving a slight murkiness in the air of the cottage. Above the fireplace hung bunches of various herbs, giving off a pleasant aroma. There were two rooms, the second one at the back, high over the barn where the cows and chickens were kept in winter, had a loft overhead with a wooden ladder leading up to the sleeping area. Nicolas took a seat on the small stool carved from tree limbs, and thought what a comfortable dwelling Frederic and Marcelle had created for themselves. Not everyone was so fortunate these days.

Eleven people sat around on the floor. Apart from some small children, they were men and women mostly in their twenties, dressed in warm leggings and tunics, their cloaks discarded in a heap. Nicolas’ mind went back to their wonderful childhood together along this river. His father had told him how, eighty years before, the families had worked as peasant farmers for Lord Dubois. When the plague had struck, the Dubois family and many other landowners and peasants had died. The peasants, as a group, took over the whole vacant property afterwards, and had farmed it ever since. They had made a good living because food had been scarce, and they were skilful in many ways. Three generations on there was still a demand for grain, woven materials from their sheep, leather goods and Nicolas’ own silver jewellery. Now their lives were threatened as never before.

Realising they were all looking expectantly at him Nicolas apologized. “I’m a little late, I’m sorry, there were quite a few soldiers on the watch today. Times are getting worse, are they not? Camille has gone into the city to collect my silver and to see what is happening. I am worried they might take notice of her.”

“I don’t think you should worry too much today,” Frederic volunteered. “With her talents she will protect herself and the children. Besides everyone will be too busy watching the execution of Jeanne d’Arc. The bishop handed her over to the inquisitors yesterday. She won’t renounce her allegiance to the King, so she most certainly will burn.”

Grim-faced, they got into a discussion on the state of affairs of late; how each person must not show skills in healing, particularly those, like themselves, who had followed the ways of their parents, gradually casting off the Catholic religion. Their grand-parents had grown disillusioned with the Church and its rituals and icons. There was no help for the peasants, instead they were drained of the little they had by the bishops and priests. They preferred to honour God by living a good life and helping each other. Any guilt their parents had felt as a result of their withdrawal from the Church was soon overcome as they observed the corrupt nature of the ecclesiastics in their city.

Nicolas looked around at the group; his friends, his brothers and sisters, and his playmates from childhood. He disliked seeing them so worried, and his mind returned to last year when Frederic and Marcelle’s son, Robert, had been executed. Millie, Robert’s wife, was expecting their first child at the time and they had taken a walk into the city to visit a friend. They were betrayed by a neighbour who saw them administering a medicine to ease fever.

Robert, wanting to protect Millie, had fled, leading the church guards on a chase through the narrow, winding laneways for some time before they apprehended him and dragged him off to the inquisitors. He had been subjected to constant lecturing on the evils of being in league with heretics and witches, and finally tortured and questioned. He was not going to survive once they had even an imaginary charge against him. He was executed within days.

Frederic and Marcelle took care of Millie when she lost the baby, and with Camille’s expert nursing she regained her strength, although she would always be but a shadow of what she had been. There she was now, sitting across from Nicolas, listening to the conversation, her face pale and serious. Amelie, her husband, Jean and their little children, Mathieu four and Nanette two, sat on the floor cuddled together. Claire, Amelie’s eighteen-year-old sister, sat nearby, her arm around Millie’s shoulders.

Nicolas came back to the present with a start.

“So long as the Catholics persecute us, we will persist,” Alex was saying vehemently. “I want to desecrate as many of their churches as I can.”

“Alex we must be careful. There have been more and more arrests lately, they’ll use any excuse to get you,” said Millie. “You remember last year, when they caught Robert, because Cecile’s neighbour wanted to gain indulgences from the church?”

“I think we should prepare ourselves for any eventuality. We may have to leave quickly one day, so we should have preparations made,” said Jean, being his usual practical self.

“Leave here!” cried Amelie. “Our parents before us worked this land, it is ours, we make a good living between us. We couldn’t leave it, where would we go?” She looked desperately out the window at the familiar farm and forest.

“Well some have already gone to England. Even though I’m all for doing what we can to defend our way of life, I know we can’t keep it up forever,” replied Alex with bitterness and anger in his voice. “We would lose our land anyway unless we renounce what we believe. And yesterday, I heard, the authorities arrested two families on the outskirts of the city, burnt their cottages and charged them with heresy.”

“But, our land, our animals,” Amelie cried, “what would happen to us?”

“Amelie,” said her husband, Jean, trying to reassure her, “we won’t be doing this immediately, but it is as Alex says, we must be prepared.” His thoughts flew to the close encounters that he, Alex, Nicolas and Dominique had had over the last few years. They met others in the city, and all banded together to inflict as much damage as possible on the church property. So far they had managed to avoid recognition, eluding their pursuers in the dark of the night and waiting until all was clear before returning home. Routine visits to the farm by inquisitors had only revealed law-abiding God-fearing peasants, none of whom were familiar.

Nicolas felt every bit as anxious as Amelie. He saw that Juliette, sitting next to her husband Alex, was also quiet and pale in her anxiety. No wonder Alex gets so worked up, he thought, he would not yet have recovered from the execution of his parents only a few months ago. They had strongly resisted the priests’ efforts to get them back into the church and so had perished as heretics at the hands of the Bishop. Alex took his vengeance out on the statues in the cathedral one night, luckily Frederic and Jean had been able to get him out and bring him home before he was caught.

“Nicolas you must warn Camille,” said a worried Frederic. “She has been fortunate so far but sooner or later someone will decide to talk about her healing powers.” They hadn’t as yet come face to face with the authorities, but remaining incognito could not last forever.

Marcelle, a tall, thin woman in late middle age, whose peppery grey hair was loosely caught in a bun on the top of her head, stood behind her husband looking anxious, nodding her head in agreement. Frederic and Marcelle were like parents to all of them. They were the only two older people still living. All the parents had been good friends, but the others had all passed on now.

“I know Camille will be careful, but so long as there is someone who needs her help, she will go to them. I can’t stop her,” replied Nicolas.

The group of people had grown closer with the losses they had suffered. They were on tenterhooks now that new edicts had come from the church that everyone must attend the services and pay their tithes. The inquisitors were ordered by their superiors to be more vigilant, and to scour the surrounding areas for non-believers to arrest. They were to take their farms, lay waste to their housing and add the properties to the growing list of church acquisitions.

Nicolas, well aware of how volatile Alex was, and knowing that they all understood the situation, changed the subject. “How are the sheep producing this season Amelie? I hope we can get a good supply of cloth woven.”

“The wool is thick,” replied Amelie, a small, energetic woman, who ran her flock on the side of the hill. “I have shorn half of them already, and will begin weaving soon. Has Camille been able to make up some more of that blue dye? We should do well this year just when we need so many extras. I think Dominique needs more leather too, we all should have boots for the winter.”

“That is exactly what I wanted to discuss today,” said Nicolas. “It would be as well if we took Jean’s suggestion seriously, and provided necessities in case we have to flee. Perhaps we could gather everything we can for sale. There is a good grain crop, and it is a good time of year for cloth and leather goods.”

They all agreed to gather their wares, which they had been accumulating for some time, ready for the city markets in a few weeks. Camille and Millie helped Amelie with the dyeing and weaving, Nicolas had fashioned as much silver jewellery as possible, Dominique had made boots and other leather goods, and the others would gather the already ripened crops.

Bidding each other farewell they dispersed. They lived within easy walking distance, their cottages spread out over the farm like a little village. Nicolas lived about a league further downstream, and did a lot of his travelling in the small rowing boat.

Nicolas watched them walk away along the rutted, dirt track towards their own houses, which spread out a few hundred yards apart. There was the original old landowner’s stone house, large enough for Jean, Amelie, their two children, and Claire.

Further along, the smaller white cottage sitting amongst the golden-leafed birches, was Alex and Juliette’s, and quite close by was Millie’s cottage. It was a similar building, where she lived alone since she had been widowed.

Behind the large stone house the fields, full of the golden crops rippling in the breeze, stretched gently down to the rivulet. The cottages on the higher side of the track sat softly against a background of untouched forest.

Our home, Nicolas mused, we used to be so happy here, but now it is changing, and I never feel at ease.

CHAPTER TWO

Nicolas approached the river warily, the tendrils of his mind casting ahead seeking hidden dangers.

“Ah, there you are.” The soft voice came from the darkness under a thick growth of ground-hugging branches. The woman and three children sat in the coolness on the grassy river bank.

“Camille,” he cried, rushing over to take her in his arms. “Francoise, Sophie, Pierre, you have been good for Mama?”

Eagerly they nodded their heads, eyes shining.

“We saw Jeanne d’Arc Papa. She was going to be burned!” Pierre was jumping around in his excitement. “And there were many soldiers.”

They put the children into the boat, and climbed in themselves.

“You had no trouble?” he asked

“We hid ourselves a few times, but we had no trouble. I suspect they will renew their efforts now that Jeanne d’Arc is off their hands. And I picked up your silver. What are we going to do Nicolas, my love? I’m fearful of the day that someone will recognize one of us.”

“Yes. We talked of that today. We all feel that we should be prepared in case we have to leave in a hurry. Of course some are upset, but it is as Jean said, we will lose the land anyway the way things are going. We’ve got plenty of produce so we’ve arranged a market trip in four weeks.” Nicolas’ mind jumped immediately to the message from their comrades in the city, who were planning to break in to the Bishop’s palace. He didn’t want any part of that now.

As usual Camille read his thoughts. He was like an open book to her. “Oh,” she gasped, leaning forward to place her hands over his and still his rowing. “Nicolas you must be careful. I would die if I lost you. I don’t see how these constant forays do our cause any good. Surely we should leave here and go somewhere where we don’t have to fight to live. The children deserve a chance.”

“I agree,” said Nicolas. “If we stay here we will be fighting for a very long time before we gain freedom, if we ever do. We’ll see what happens in the next few weeks.” With the usual worried frown on his forehead he continued, “I didn’t mention it at the meeting because Alex is still full of grief and very angry. I’m afraid of him being in the city as he finds it hard to control himself. Perhaps it would be better if only Dominique, Jean, Amelie and I go to the market.”

Nicolas told Camille about the meeting as he guided the boat along the edges of the river under as much tree cover as possible. The long oak and willow limbs majestically stretched out over the water creating a shadowy tunnel of rippling reflections.

“Amelie wants you to make some more blue dye for her, and I must produce as many silver pieces as I can. Did Louis say when the next delivery would be?”

“Yes, in four weeks at his shop in Rouen. I’ll get it for you the day you go in to the markets,” Camille assured him.

Nicolas was a silversmith. He had gone beyond boundaries of his father’s basic teachings, his natural artistic abilities creating intricate designs in bracelets, rings, necklaces and brooches, which were in great demand amongst the nobles. He had been making a name for himself since his parent’s death some years before.

Camille gazed at Nicolas’ strong, sun-browned face as they drifted down the river, drawing closer to their own river-side landing. She loved him with all her being. Once again she relived in her mind the strange way they had met nine years before.

She was sitting by the stream not far from her cottage in the edge of the forest, many leagues east of where they now lived. She had stayed there by herself for over a year now, since her grandmother had died, and had come to fetch water from the stream. It was evening, calm and warm. She sat listening to the tinkling waters as they danced over shining stones, smoothed by centuries of wear. The sun’s rays were cutting through gold-edged foliage creating brightly dappled patterns on the short grass in the clearing.

Camille’s reveries were disturbed when she became aware of the soft tread of a horse. Looking straight into the sun she could only vaguely make out the shape of a horse and rider, a golden aura outlining their silhouette. The sight transfixed her. She sat very still, employing a camouflaging spell so they couldn’t see her as they came closer.

Her grandmother had been a very talented witch, a healer and a midwife. Camille had been a good student, obviously inheriting these magical gifts. She learned the crafts, which had to be well hidden for fear of the church’s resolve to rid itself of such people.

The rider dismounted and began to make camp and a small fire. Camille watched as he put his saddle and blanket on the ground between two fallen tree trunks, then ate ravenously from bread and cheese he carried. A mouthful or two of wine from a skin and he lay back with a smile on his face. He looked about eighteen, was quite tall, a dark complexion, his long black hair tied with a cord. He didn’t look like a brigand, but she was wary anyway, and wondered how she was going to get back to the cottage. As soon as she moved the spell would be broken, and she would be seen.

As she sat wondering, the horse, a beautiful chestnut, put his head up and began to slowly walk towards her. She tried to silently communicate with him, willing him to come no nearer, but his thoughts were gentle and inquisitive, refusing to take notice.

“He won’t hurt you.” Camille jumped as the rider spoke. He sat up and was looking at her.

“You …. can see me!” she was astonished. “How can that be?”

“When you’ve created a spell?” he said. “Don’t be afraid, I’ve no wish to hurt you. I understand these arts, there are some in my family. I have a better mind-sight than most, but that’s all. Why are you out here on your own? Isn’t that dangerous?”

“Not usually,” she retorted. “Hardly anybody comes through here. I live nearby in a cottage with my parents, and I must be getting back with the water,” she lied, picking up the bucket and striding away, showing a confidence she didn’t feel. After a few minutes she could sense that he had followed at a distance, but she hurried on, barring the cottage door once she was inside.

Camille remembered how the image of his handsome face became a fixture in her mind during the following days, she felt drawn to this person who had come into her life at random (or was it?), and who understood and accepted her abilities.

Nicolas was speaking. “You’re dreaming.” The canoe gently grounded at their landing site, and the children were laughing as he lifted them out. He helped her onto the muddy bank, and dragged the boat up into the cover of the trees. They linked arms and strolled up the mossy, leaf-covered path, the children scampering ahead.

“I was remembering how we met. What a beautiful evening it was. We were destined to meet. It wasn’t really accidental that you came along when you did.”

“Oh I realized that as soon as I saw you. But it was Sinjun who took me into the clearing, he must have known you were there. I can still see your hair, like fine, spun gold in the sun. I had never seen a more beautiful girl in my life.” He smiled at her, squeezing her tightly. “Ah, ma cherie, I’ll never forget the look on your face when you realized we could see you. I couldn’t wait to ride back to see you again.”

Out of the trees cantered the chestnut horse, his gorgeous mane and tail flowing thick and luxurious. He was twelve years old now, in his prime, tall, glossy, and handsome.

“Hello Sinjun. What a beautiful boy you are,” laughed Nicolas, while the horse danced around them, softly whinnying his welcome.

“Did you ever hear where your father got him?” enquired Camille.

“Papa said he had been given him from a cross-channel trader in payment for some goods.”

Camille and the horse had a special relationship. He often came to rest his chin on her shoulder, gently blowing in her face or hair and look deeply into her eyes. Like her grandmother, Camille could touch the minds of animals, feel their emotions, sense their thoughts, calm them and speak to them.

The family group soon came to the comfortable wood cabin where they lived. It nestled in a small open space surrounded by the forest. Harvesting the logs, Nicolas and his father had built it in preparation for Camille when she decided to leave her lonely existence, and join their family. Nicolas had followed her to the cottage that first day, and realised she was actually on her own. He knew that destiny had led him into that clearing and resolved to return as soon as possible. It had taken quite a few visits before Nicolas had been able to convince her that he had loved her from the moment he had set eyes on her. So, it seemed, had Sinjun.